


I Know Places

by Spinning Place (buttercups3)



Series: Time Will Tell [1]
Category: Weekend (2011)
Genre: Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2241435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/Spinning%20Place
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been over a year since Glen left for America, but he's back in Nottingham for the holidays without having mentioned it to Russell. The Propaganda brings them back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know Places

**Author's Note:**

> Title based on the song of the same name by Lykke Li.
> 
> Part of a series, Time Will Tell, exploring whether the boys can move forward toward a lasting relationship.

Glen brushes the snowflakes from his hair before stepping into the Propaganda. They’re finely structured as if children had clipped them out of white paper in school.  Suddenly awash in the sickening rainbow lights and the rhythmic pulse of techno--a jarring contrast to the tranquility outside--he feels like a goddamn spectator to his old life. If only he could shake _that_ out with the snow. He folds his pea coat over his arm, revealing his yellow hoodie over his latest clever t-shirt, and scans the room.

And there’s Jill, willing as ever to play fag hag on a Saturday night. She’s been promising all year to come to Oregon for a visit, but Glen’s mostly glad she hasn’t been able to scrounge the funds. It’s not that he doesn’t miss her… or miss _something_ about her or this. He can’t put his finger on _what_ he misses actually.

She’s hugging him now, kissing his cheek, and screeching in that harsh Nottingham brogue, “Missed you, love!” Then she makes an even stouter attempt to be heard over the music, “Best to warn you, Russell’s here. I just glimpsed him absconding into the bathroom with a burly bloke.”

She tries to make it a joke, but she knows and Glen knows this is the worst possible outcome of tonight. Glen’s too proud to be driven out by the news, but his underarms feel uncomfortably sweaty despite the subzero chill he’s just escaped.

“Burly?” Glen fixates on the least important bit to avoid the rest. “Thought he only liked little people.”

Glen ignores Jill’s pinched forehead to ponder his current dilemma. You see, he’d been counting on a rather immediate piss. “Shit. Have to use the loo, but I s’pose that’d be awkward.”

Jill snorts and shrugs. “Well.”

“How long ago did you see him go in?”

“‘Bout five minutes? Maybe ten?”

Glen sighs. “Right, let’s get a drink in the meantime.”

Jill nods and spends the next few minutes pumping Glen for information about the men of Portland--are they all lumberjacks? are there any straight boys she might like? Glen didn’t remember her being quite this irritating, but then again, maybe it’s the pressure of his full-to-exploding bladder against his waistband. So desperate is he to pee that finally he blurts: 

“Who takes this long for a toilet fuck? Ridiculous! I must have a piss.” 

With that Glen stomps toward the loo, inordinately cross and angrier still that he’s let this upset him. Chances are Russell’s not even in there anymore if he ever was in the first place. Jill’s not the most reliable wingman on earth. Hell, she’s a straight woman in a gay bar. 

When Glen advances upon the dirty trio of urinals, he tries not to notice the two sets of feet in the stall next to him, the sounds of straining sex. But it’s the whispered, breathless conversation that quickly grows unbearable. 

A gruff voice insists between puffs, “Relax, you fuckin’ slag; ‘m almost done.” 

It is undeniably Russell’s pained mumble that returns, “Stop. I can’t- fuck! Stop, hurts too much.” 

“Thought you bottoms liked a bit of sting.” 

“Ah-FUCK!” 

Glen zips up and leans his white-knuckled fist against the wall. Fuck, he’s alone in here with them, and he can tell from Russell’s voice that he’s in real pain. So why isn’t Russell stopping it? Russell’s big; he’s strong. He could make this stop by force if he had the mind to.

“Please!” Russell chokes instead.

“Almost… done…” the rough voice grunts obscenely, turning Glen’s stomach. 

Fuck. Russell’s whimper has a soft edge of desperation to it that Glen simply can’t abide. He’s transported back to what it was like to fuck Russell--his innocent joy, how he came just from the inside, which, frankly, is more common among power bottoms than barely-out boys like Russell. Glen can’t bear to hear someone take advantage of a sweetness like that. In an impulsive fit of fury, he pounds on the thin metal door of the stall. 

“Fuck is going on in there!? I’ll call the bouncer on you, you little shit. The man clearly said, _Stop_!” 

Glen’s heart races as the behemoth emerges from the stall, cheeks ruddy and chest heaving. This man could fuck up Glen if he chose to. “Fucking little bitch! I should crush you!” he growls at Glen.

Behind him, Russell stands up to his full height after adjusting his clothing, and it dawns on Glen that where this wanker is all revolting fat, Russell is muscle. Moreover, Russell grew up in care; surely he knows how to throw a punch. Glen suddenly feels bolder. 

“Get the hell out,” Glen spits. “John, the owner, is going to blacklist your cunty ass. I’ll make sure of it.” 

Glen grins smugly--a little fake confidence goes a long way in the fag world--and sure enough the asshole buggers off, hemming and hawing. Glen swallows and leans against the wall folding his arms. Russell is half hiding behind the door to the john. He’s got on black trousers and a nicely-fitted white t-shirt. His black curls are as glossy as Glen remembers, though a bit longer, and to his dismay, Glen has to resist the fantasy of running his fingers through them. Russell’s been working out too if his bulging biceps are any indication. Fuck. Glen had convinced himself he was over Russell, and yet here he is looking like everyone’s high-school, straight-boy crush, only actually gay. 

Russell appears to collect himself. “Hello.” And then, typically, adds, “Sorry.” 

He tries to push past Glen to the sink as if they’re just going to part on that note, though they have been in contact by email and text throughout the year or so Glen’s been away. Glen shakes his head as Russell runs the water, choler seeping in and displacing the adrenaline from almost getting his ass kicked. 

“Oh no. You’re not making off without an explanation. The hell were you thinking? Why didn’t you stop him?” There’s venom in Glen’s voice, and he relishes the way it crowds out the other confusing emotions: hurt, desire… stupid that the word _love_ even tries to intrude. Not that. “Do you have _so_ little self-worth?”

“What? No!” Russell’s dark eyes finally meet Glen’s hazels in the mirror. Russell looks horribly, tragically weary, and it cuts through Glen’s chest with a painful singe. Russell’s plump, beautiful lips mutter, “Just a bad night.” With a wobbly voice, he attempts to change the subject. “So… you’re back for the holidays?” 

Fuck, now guilt intrudes upon Glen’s convenient ire. He thought a million times about contacting Russell to let him know he was coming to Nottingham, but he didn’t want to hurt either of them. He hoped Russell had moved on to someone he deserved. 

Russell’s eyes say that he hasn’t. He’s staring at Glen in the mirror with a kind of fierce but shy longing that’s the same as it ever was. It’s addicting and tantalizing, and Glen feels like he’s reacting to everything Russell says far too slowly. Without his quick wit, what defense has he? 

“Uh, yeah. Parents bought me a ticket. Staying just for the week. Sorry I didn’t tell you,” Glen blurts, regretting each word as it tumbles out. Parents (Russell hasn’t any). Staying (no, he’s not). A week (long enough of a booty call to lose themselves even more than last time). 

“What? No. You didn’t have to…” Russell gets tongue-tied and shakes his head, leaning forward on the sink and gazing down at the drain. “Look, it’s good to see you again--not really under these circumstances--but I’ve got to… I’m very tired. I’ve got to go.”

That quaver in Russell’s voice. Angry as Glen is at him, he finds he can’t let Russell go home alone. Watching Russell gingerly adjust his trousers clinches it for him. 

“You hurt?” Glen asks more gently and cautiously approaches. 

Russell shakes his head. “Just tired.” 

“Yes, I heard you the first time. Well come on then, let’s get you home.” 

Russell turns his bearded chin over his shoulder and questions Glen with deep brown eyes, layered with vulnerability. 

“Can’t let you go home alone, now can I.” It’s not intended as a question. 

“I…” 

Russell follows Glen out of the loo. In Glen’s experience it’s not that Russell is easily browbeaten per se; rather, it’s that Russell is slower to react. He thinks or _feels_ \--probably the latter--his way to a conclusion. And he does it in his own time. It’s an extremely foreign way of being to Glen. It’s also… intriguing. 

After a brief parting with Jill, Glen’s not surprised to hear Russell weigh in with his answer as they board the bus. 

“Of course you’re welcome, but I don’t need a babysitter. I really am fine.” 

“Wasn’t planning on babysitting. Only drinking your tea and warming your bed.” 

Russell almost smiles. So, definitely not over Glen. Was there ever a doubt from the tone of his brief communications to Glen in America? Glen sighs wearily. 

They don’t say much on the bus. There’s only one available seat, and Russell insists on Glen taking it, appearing loath to sit, which triggers another surge of disquiet in him. It’s not just what he’s witnessed tonight; it’s Russell’s computer diary he read all those months ago. It seems Russell can’t help but expose himself to hurt. He never came home to _you’re loved and you’re special_ , because no one ever thought him such. It’s not that Russell intentionally punishes himself; he just believes that punishment is what awaits him in the world. And it does, only Glen can’t stand to think of Russell experiencing life that way. He, of all people, doesn’t deserve it. He’s too _good_. 

Russell tries to make small talk a few times, asking Glen what’s new in America since they’ve last talked. In a moment, Glen realizes that Russell is trying to ascertain if he has a boyfriend, and that only irks him. He doesn’t divulge, but of course he hasn’t. Russell should know better. 

In the hallway of Russell’s flat, they discard their snowy jackets and kick off their shoes to pad in with stockinged feet. It looks the same as ever except for a tiny, fake pine tree with mismatched ornaments--second-hand objects always Russell’s attempt to create a history for himself where there is none. The familiarity and the comfort of the space catches Glen off guard. It’s weird to think, but he loves this place, is glad to be here again. He adores that rust-colored couch and the too-tight kitchen from which Russell politely calls, “Tea?” Glen _yeses_ in answer and continues to wander, peeking into the bedroom and feeling a rush of nostalgia that almost steals his breath away. It’s undeniable that this bed, the flat, and Russell himself are special to him. Sacred almost. 

Russell pushes past him with a “Pardon.” He wipes off his snow-wet trainers and methodically, almost childlike, places them in a cardboard box as if they were new. Glen watches this transpire with fascination. 

It takes Glen forever to decide what he wants to say, as he leans against the door jam. “Russell. Don’t act like a faggot. I respect you too much for that.” 

Russell flinches. Glen knows Russell detests the word, and yet he foists it upon him with regularity. To Glen it can mean self-acceptance, but it can also mean pathetic acquiescence to the everyday savagery put upon people like them. 

Russell has perched on the edge of his bed and rubs his palms on his trousers, refusing to look up. “I… I’m angry with myself too, Glen, but I don’t think I should have to apologize to you. It’s my fuck up. And it’s not really your business, is it? It seems you swam out of the Atlantic only to shame me.” 

Glen almost laughs at the image, his eyes flitting to the thickening snow outside Russell’s bedroom window.

“It _wouldn’t_ have been my business, but I had to rescue you, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t ask you to. I was fine. _Am_ fine.” The brown eyes drift up and lock onto Glen’s. 

Tension crowds the space between them. 

“You’re not fine if you’re letting people hurt you.” At the word _hurt_ , Glen feels his chest starting to crack, and he swallows the rawness. He does not want to feel this man--to feel his pain, to want him so terribly. And yet to him Russell is irresistible. 

“I don’t let…” Russell gouges at the corner of his eye with his index finger. “Glen. It was a bad decision on a bad night. Please…” 

Hearing the word _please_ for the second time tonight is what finally breaks Glen, and he crosses the void to sit beside Russell, whose scent--soap, booze, and weed with the faintest hint of cologne--is intoxicating as ever. He cups Russell’s chin in his hand to regard the plump, glistening lips before kissing them. They’re warm and tasty, and Glen’s body _wants_ , his stomach flip-flopping, and his cock too. He has to remind himself rather sternly that Russell probably isn’t in the mood to be wanted at this moment. But then Russell cranes forward for another kiss, their bottom lips clinging. Glen thinks Russell’s about to deepen it when instead he buries his scruffy face in Glen’s neck, hiding. 

“You don’t deserve the way he treated you,” Glen whispers. 

“I know,” comes Russell’s muffled voice. “But he was in me, and it was a public place, and it just seemed easier to let him finish.” 

Glen ponders this forlornly and lets it go. “It wasn’t my place to be cross with you, but you’re… important to me.” 

Russell rolls his head onto Glen’s shoulder, close enough that Glen can see his lips tremble as they mutter, “But you didn’t even tell me you were coming.” 

 _Of course._ Russell sounds far more hurt by this than by what happened at the club. “I didn’t want to… stir up something we’d both tried hard to get over.” 

Russell chuckles lightly. “ _You_ tried.” 

“But Russell, you _should_ try.” 

Russell shrugs. “You’re terribly bossy, you know. But you don’t get to tell me what to feel, Glen.” 

Russell smiles in that diffident, disarming manner, and gets up to check on the whistling kettle. When Glen follows him into the cramped kitchen he can’t help but relish the tall, athletic man from behind. _Such_ a nice ass. Russell thrusts into his hands a steaming mug, amber liquid paled by one cream and one sugar. He remembered, of course. 

“Need a bath,” Russell mumbles into his tea and scowls as he burns his lip. He gazes coyly at Glen through the steam. “Want to join me?” 

And that’s how Glen finds himself wedged between strong legs in a soapy, deliciously warm bath, their teas set on the floor beside them. Glen settles back against slippery skin and exhales a breath he might have been holding the entire time he’s been in America. Can he admit to himself how good this feels? Russell runs his elegant fingers down Glen’s chest and skates them over the sparse hair of his stomach, ever nearing Glen’s erection, jutting out above the waterline. Russell sighs happily as he fingers Glen’s tip like it’s more his pleasure than Glen’s. Glen’s cock practically jumps into Russell’s soothing hand as if it would rather be with him than Glen anyway. 

Glen wonders for a moment what this sex will be like--will he get the Russell of their first time, tentative and anxious but no less jubilant, or the Russell of their last time when they fucked and Russell seemed so much more sure of what he wanted to give and receive. This Russell isn’t either of those exactly. Glen can tell he’s exhausted, bone weary, but he also seems lost in this, like he’s been imagining it for months. For over a year. He feels Glen up so completely and luxuriantly that Glen is almost trembling by the time Russell really starts jacking him, letting the soap lubricate his taut, silky skin. Glen melts back into the strong chest moaning and coming before he even knows he’s ready, white come flecking upward and then mingling indistinguishable from the soap. Russell holds his waning penis for a very long time, so tenderly and intimately that it almost makes Glen afraid, when at last Russell lets go and dips his hand into the water to rinse. 

Glen lies back on Russell’s warm body until the water starts to turn tepid. 

Finally Russell mumbles, scarcely moving his lips, “Can you give me a few minutes alone?” He sounds almost asleep. 

“‘Course.” Glen stands, dripping, and gathering together their tea mugs with a clink, gives Russell his privacy.

Though Russell’s got the heat on, it’s still chilly in the nude, so Glen quickly places the mugs in the sink and scurries to the bedroom to burrow under Russell’s fluffy blanket. 

“You cold?” Russell asks, suddenly darkening the doorway. 

“Not under here.” 

Russell pulls up the blanket, exposing Glen’s flank briefly to the chill, before snuggling against him. They wrap their arms around each other like old lovers, and Glen tucks his head under Russell’s chin for a restoring sleep. 

* * *

It feels too odd to return to Russell’s flat on Christmas Eve or Day when Glen’s parents have flown him across the world to be with them. But they do talk by phone. 

“Happy Christmas, Glen.” 

Glen can almost hear the smile in Russell’s voice, can certainly imagine the delicate crinkles he gets by his eyes. 

“Look, I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon, but no gifts, all right?” Glen is burdened by such things--giving and receiving presents. He couldn’t begin to explain why. 

“All right. No presents,” Russell agrees, though he sounds disappointed, almost certainly because he hoped to _give_ Glen something. He’s a giving person by nature. 

The next afternoon they sit on Russell’s lumpy, old couch, legs entangled, listening to Christmas carols on the radio, of all things. Russell is so anachronistic in some ways, it’s endearing and disconcerting in equal measure. They’re feasting upon a rum cake that Jamie’s wife baked for Russell, and every time Glen drops a crumb, Russell plucks it up and nibbles it, a domestic little habit. 

Glen’s recounted some ridiculous story about the holidays as a boy, and Russell is laughing genuinely, without a hint of envy, despite the fact that his Christmases probably weren’t very happy growing up. Russell rubs at his nose, reddening it slightly, and as his fingers drop to his lap, Glen laces his fingers into them. Holding hands, Glen scoots closer and moves in to almost kiss. Russell gazes at him intently through thick, dark eyelashes, tongue skirting out to moisten his lips.

“I sort of lied,” Glen warns. “I didn’t exactly get you something for Christmas, but… I did bring you something from America. It’s silly really.”

Russell looks half-elated and half-devastated that he’s been deprived of the chance to get Glen something in return. The expression is so cute that Glen has to kiss the full lips for a moment, before he can recover enough to cram his hand into his pocket, removing the tiniest little model of a snow-tipped mountain. 

Russell stares at it like Glen has just offered him solid gold and takes it very delicately into the palm of his hand. “Why… it’s lovely! What is it?” 

“It’s Mount Hood. You can see it from Portland.”

“So now I can see what you see,” Russell exclaims with decisive joy. 

Glen sticks out his tongue. “God, you’re romantic.” He reaches down to grab another handful of cake, half of which ends up scattered on his chest and the couch.

Russell reaches behind to set the minuscule mountain upon a shelf and turns back around beaming. 

“You are disgustingly easy to please,” Glen chides with his mouth full. 

This time Russell removes some of the cake from the corner of Glen’s lips and eats it. They both laugh, Glen’s high-pitched cackle soaring above Russell’s shy chuckle.

“How ‘bout you please me some more?” Russell solicits, leaning his cheek enticingly upon Glen’s shoulder. 

“No objections here.” 

They fondle and stumble their way to the bedroom, recalling that first time together, but this time, Glen doesn’t have to wonder what Russell wants. They kiss and giggle and roll around in the blanket so much that it takes Glen ages to untangle his ankles when he wants to forge a path to Russell’s bum. Russell opens his legs for him, holding his large, familiar cock out of the way, and Glen’s chest burns a little at Russell’s evident eagerness. Glen doesn’t want to admit that sex with Russell is different than with other men. It’s just so obvious that Russell loves him. He cannot ask himself if he returns it. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. 

For the short time they’re together, he can take care of this lovely person, and he can let himself be taken care of. That’s all they have. 

Glen kisses down the line to Russell’s entrance, threading his fingers into Russell’s and kneading both sets of fingers into the throbbing erection beneath. Russell emits the most delicious moan as Glen presses his lips against the inviting little pucker. It’s very rewarding the way Russell rolls his hips against Glen’s tongue, as Glen tastes inside him, intimately, carefully. 

“Glen,” Russell moans with sudden urgency and pulls on Glen’s bicep. 

Glen chuckles and pumps his own dripping hard-on a few times before sheathing it in a condom, as they reposition to spoon. Glen douses his fingers in cool, slippery lubricant. Russell determinedly kisses Glen’s lips over his shoulder as Glen slicks them both, and then presses his bluntess against that fragile hole. It’s too much of a challenge to enter him from that angle, so they roll over with Russell on his stomach. Lying on top of the big, comforting body, Glen gently breaches him. Russell gasps and reaches back to squeeze Glen’s hand. With rapt patience, Glen waits for Russell to relax the smooth, gloriously slick muscles currently cradling his tip. Eventually he can completely slide into the tight, hot space and fucks there with desperate carefulness, relishing the friction of their bodies, their moans and whispers filling Russell’s darkening room.

After some minutes, Russell asks to reposition and rolls onto his back, hitching up his hips on a pillow. Glen kneels in between his thighs and slides back in, very near his edge now. He slicks his hand again and reaches for Russell’s half-hard cock, coaxing it back to life with firm, long strokes. Almost instantly Russell squirms and grabs onto Glen’s forearms. 

“Gonna… mmm, coming,” Russell pants with a happy, open-mouthed smile. Glen’s nimble fingers work him through it--a sweet, slow orgasm that oozes onto Russell’s belly. 

The way Russell’s inner muscles clench on Glen’s cock addles his brain. He flops forward and buries his lips in Russell’s neck, thrusting himself to a deep, achingly satisfying conclusion. His teeth press against the tender flesh beneath Russell’s ear, as his body empties itself of the ever-present tension it only seems to expel into Russell. 

Glen is suddenly terribly exhausted. His entire weight melts into the big body beneath him, as he feels Russell stroke his hair and trace his earlobe. Russell’s warm come between them is sticky and satisfying. After a long spell Glen finally forces himself to pull out and discard the condom. Then he collapses on top of Russell exactly as before. 

“All right?” Glen’s lips barely form the words, but he wants to check, to make sure it was good for Russell.

Russell’s lips imprint on his forehead. “Yeah. Don’t you dare move.” Strong arms encircle and hold Glen tightly. 

Why does this have to be so perfect? Russell is warm and sweet and feels stupidly like home in this place Glen didn’t even want to come back to. _Fuck me_ , Glen thinks with a twinge of sorrow. It’s going to be just as hard leaving as it was the last time. No, it’s going to be worse. 

As he drifts, he imagines he can hear the snow. It’s probably snowing on Mount Hood too. There’s comfort to be had in that.


End file.
